Physically shaken by the recollection, Joanna gripped the thick down-filled duvet to her face and cried into it. Caitlin gently stroked her head, as a chaotic jumble of disjointed thoughts tumbled through her mind.
At last the crying stopped. “It went on like that for . . . for a while
“You didn’t report her?”
“I felt sorry for her. I was afraid she’d think I betrayed her. That if I just gave her time.” Joanna wiped at her eyes with the back of her hand. “Besides, who would I report her to? There was no proof. No one else ever saw her with the knife . . . not even Amber or the housekeeper. It was only when we were alone in the house that this other . . . this demon . . . came out.
“I admit that last day, when the canoe capsized, as we went over, I was certain she’d done it on purpose, trying to terrify me. Even afterwards, despite the fact that she . . . that she drowned,” Joanna choked on the words, “I couldn’t help thinking . . . this sounds terrible . . . ”
“Go on.”
“I couldn’t help thinking it was her own stupid fault!” Caitlin had no difficulty imagining herself in Joanna’s situation. She could almost hear wet footsteps in the hall, almost smell the musty dampness of matted hair.
She sat up and turned on the light.
Chapter Eleven–And Down Will Come Baby
“That was an excellent breakfast, Jill,” Mr. Piper enthused to murmurs of agreement.
“I must have the recipe for this marmalade,” said Mrs. Griffeth, as her croissant disappeared beneath another layer of the condiment in question. “I haven’t tasted anything this luscious since . . . well, since I don’t know when.”
Jill gathered the tablecloth of the sideboard by the corners, preparatory to taking it outdoors for a shaking. “I’m afraid I can’t take credit for the jellies and jams, much as I’d like to. They’re all Marks and Sparks.”
“Mark who?” Mrs. Griffeth cupped her ear.
“Marks and Spenser,” Caitlin volunteered. “It’s a chain of department stores in Britain. Marks ‘n’ Sparks is sort of a nickname.”
“Oh. Like Bloomies!”
“Sorry?” said Jill. She went to the door, her hands full of crumby linen and, with an almost magical maneuvering of feet and hip, managed to open it without assistance. In the alcove outside the wind had deposited a pile of leaves that now tumbled over the threshold like partisans at the Bastille. Briefly, they rode invisible dervishes of wind, before drifting to rest on the stone floor.
“Bloomingdale’s,” Mrs. Griffeth explained. “People call it Bloomie’s sometimes.
“By the way, I gave my eyeglasses to the maid . . . what’s her name?”
“Genevieve,” said Caitlin.
“Pretty name. You’re sure she can be trusted with them? My glasses? They’re the only pair I have. I’m . . . ” She was going to say ‘blind as a bat’, but what remained of her sight fell on Piper at that moment, reminding her of Miss Tichyara, and she edited on the fly, nearly choking herself in the process. “I’m useless without them. The world’s a blur.”
“Genevieve is very competent, isn’t she Jill?”
When Jill made no response, all eyes gradually turned toward her. Framed in the doorway, she stood staring at her feet, unmoving. The color had drained from her face, and her mouth was open as if about to scream, but nothing came out.
Caitlin had been wrestling a palpable foreboding all morning. The stricken look on Jill’s face confirmed it. “Jill?” she said tentatively. Somehow she knew. “Is it Farthing?”
As if the words had broken a spell, Jill shot her a glance that was ragged with terror. In spite of herself, Caitlin rose slowly from the table. She didn’t want to see what she was afraid of seeing. Piper, less reticent and moving with surprising agility for a man of his size, was first to Jill’s side and was bending over the body by the time Caitlin arrived.
“Blow to the top of the head,” Piper pronounced, pointing to a large, irregular bruise in the middle of Farthing’s balding crown. A small trickle of blood, still moist, oozed from his left ear.
The other guests clustered ‘round the grisly scene.
“Oh my dear,” said Mrs. Griffeth. “How terrible! How awful!”
Mr. Wagner gave Mrs. Griffith a brief consoling pat on the shoulder. “How do you suppose it could’ve happened?”
Caitlin applied her fingers to Farthing’s throat and felt a faint but distinct pulse. She bounced to her feet as if bitten. “He’s alive!”
“Can’t be,” said Piper. Closer examination, however, confirmed Caitlin’s diagnosis. “Damn. She’s right!”
The words had a thawing effect on Jill. “Help me get him inside.”
“I don’t know that we should move him,” Caitlin cautioned, staying Wagner and Piper who had fallen immediately to the task. “We might do more harm than good. We should wait for a doctor.”
Piper stood up, slapping soggy leaves from his palms. “She’s right. Could have nerve damage, or a broken neck or God knows what. Callneuf-une-uneor whatever you have over here.”
“We can’t just leave him there on those damp leaves,” Jill protested helplessly.
“It’s all right,” said Caitlin. “You go make the call. We’ll cover him with blankets and make him as comfortable as possible.”
“Someone go get Mrs. Capshaw,” Jill said from the kitchen doorway. Amber darted her an inscrutable glance.
“What on earth for?” Piper said reflexively.
“She’s a nurse . . . ” said Caitlin. She cast an appealing glance at Amber.
“Is that so?” Piper asked.
There was a brief flash of nervousness and uncertainly in the girl’s eyes. “She was. Yes. I’ll go get her. It might be best if there wasn’t such a . . . if everyone would . . . ”
“Oh, right,” said Caitlin. “Mrs. Capshaw doesn’t do well with crowds, as you may have guessed. Jill and I will look after Mr. Farthing. Why don’t the rest of you go out on the grounds and set up some tripod shots.”
“Of course. Of course. Good idea,” said Piper, corralling the bystanders in the broad expanse of his arms and herding them toward the tower door, through which Amber had already gone.
“The doctor’s not available,” said Jill, returning from the kitchen. “He’s out on call. What are we going to do?”
Farthing stirred with a moan, his hand going automatically to his head.
“Don’t move, Mr. Farthing.” Caitlin gripped him firmly by the shoulder. “You’ve had a bad accident. Someone’s coming to look at you.”
“What in hell hit me?” Farthing pushed himself to a sitting position, despite Caitlin’s admonition. “I’m all right.” His words were thick-tongued and slurred. “I’ll be okay,” he amended.
“Well, just sit there a minute,” said Caitlin, with all the authority she could summon. She was relieved that he didn’t seem disposed to try his luck any further. “Anything seem broken?”
“Aside from my head, you mean?” Farthing winced as he massaged the back of his neck. He took a mental inventory. “I don’t think so.”
Joanna Capshaw was taking a long time to come. She probably hadn’t dressed. “What happened, Mr. Farthing?” Jill asked, her eyes pooling with tears of alarm.
“Damned if I know,” said Farthing. He leaned back against the wall. “I was restless this morning, so I got up, got dressed and went outside to have a cigar.”
“A cigar? First thing in the morning?” Jill asked, incredulously.
“Best time for one,” Farthing retorted, a suggestion of his customary edge returning to his voice. “Jumpstarts the synapses. Though I admit the thought makes me a little nauseous at the moment.”
“Anyway,” Caitlin prompted.
“Anyway, I was down by the sluice, pestering the wildlife, when . . . when I don’t know what the hell happened. Next thing I knew, Piper was pronouncing me dead at the scene.” He cradled his head in his hands. “I halfway wish he’d been right. What time is it? And who
dragged me here an laid me out amidst the vegetation?”
“You must have been conscious enough to get this far,” Jill deduced.
Howdid he get there? Caitlin studied the ground outside the steps. “You weren’t dragged. There’d be marks on the grass.”
“Carried, then,” Farthing argued. “I’m sure I wasn’t in any condition to get this far under my own power. I’d remember . . . something.”
Caitlin and Jill exchanged doubtful glances. Of all the guests, only Piper possessed sufficient mass to shift Farthing’s dead weight nearly fifty yards, and Piper, fresh as a morning in Paris, had been at breakfast with everyone else. “By whom?” Caitlin asked.
“How should I know?” Farthing retorted, his genuine perplexity ill concealed by his bluster. “I’m soaked.”
“We’ll get you some dry things as soon as we’re sure it’s okay to move you.”
Farthing got groggily to his feet. “I fail to see how a case of pneumonia is going to aid in my recovery.” He swooned and winced and swore several times in rapid succession before finally allowing himself to be directed to the sofa by the fire.
The tower door opened and Amber entered, followed closely by Mrs. Capshaw, who surveyed the room nervously.
“Mrs. Capshaw is going to have a look at you, Mr. Farthing,” Jill explained. “She’s a nurse.”
“Is that a fact?” said Farthing, recovering a bit of his ill-humor. “I guess near-death on the doorstep doesn’t rate a doctor.”
Ignoring him, Joanna began to inspect the wound. “How long were you unconscious?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t know,” said Farthing cryptically. “I was unconscious.”
She parted his eyelids and studied his pupils. “Follow my finger with your eyes.”
He complied, as she moved her index finger from side to side and up and down. “How long to do think you were out?” She held his arms out to his sides.
Farthing submitted to the examination. “Well, I went out just at dawn, walked around a bit, communed with the foix gras then sat down to have my cigar. I don’t know exactly how long all that took. Ten minutes or so, I should think.”
“Where were you?”
“By the little dam at the end of the moat. The sluice.”
“I see. Close your eyes, please, and try to touch your fingertips together.” He did as he was told and missed by several inches.
“Wait a second,” he said, opening one eye. “I can do that.” He tried again and missed. “Damn.”
“What happened next, that you recall?” Mrs. Capshaw put his palms together and held them in place. “Try to push outward.” He complied.
“The lights went out. Next thing I know, I’m on the doorstep in a heap with this . . . ” His hand would have gone to his head, but Joanna wouldn’t release it. “And Piper about to get all slobbery and sentimental with some kind of impromptu eulogy.”
“Would you mind standing up for a moment.” It wasn’t a request. Farthing stood.
“Walk a straight line toward me.” She stepped back several paces as he moved in her direction, clearly with some effort. “That’s fine, Mr. Farthing.” She met him halfway and helped him back to the sofa. “You seem to have a concussion. I don’t think there’ll be any long-term effects, but you’re going to be very uncomfortable for a while.” She raised her hand as he inhaled to protest. “Of course, you may do as you wish, Mr. Farthing. It’s your head.” She turned to Jill. “Has the doctor been called?”
“Yes. But he’s on another case. He’s to call when he gets back to the office.”
“Good. Until then,” Mrs. Capshaw said, adopting a no-nonsense bedside manner, “my recommendation is that you stay as still as possible.” She stood up, brushing her hands on her slacks. “I expect you’ll feel drowzy, but we’d best not let you go to sleep until the doctor’s had a chance to look at you. He’ll probably recommend bed rest for twenty-four hours or so.”
The extent of Farthing’s injuries and the discomfort he was in was made evident by the fact that he protested only feebly. He lay his head back. “Any chance of an aspirin?”
“I have some Tylenol,” Caitlin offered. She retrieved her purse from the chess table and, after briefly ransacking its contents, produced a white plastic bottle.
“Ah, there you are!” Piper entered by the little door near the kitchen. “Thought they’d gone off and buried you.” He strode to the center of the room with a huge branch in his hand. “Here’s the culprit.” He shook the branch vigorously, as if it had been the neck of a villain caught in the act. “Part of it, anyway. I broke it in half. The rest is down by the mill pond, where I found this.” He held up a half-smoked cigar butt. “Thought I’d go have a look ‘round while the others got their gear together. Looks like you were sitting on the ‘x’ that marked the spot when this limb decided to severe its ties with the family tree. Wind did it, of course. Act of God, my insurance man would call it.”
He handed the branch to Farthing, who examined it dubiously, as if he had little regard for a God who would do such a thing.
“Lucky you’re alive,” Piper said, reserving editorial comment. “It broke off about thirty-five or forty feet up. Little spot of blood on it. See?”
Farthing was rubbing his neck. “I can believe it.” He leered at Jill. “If I play my cards right, I’ll own this place in a week or two.”
Jill was dumbfounded. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Don’t mind him,” Caitlin interjected. “American’s are litigious. It’s a kind of pastime.”
“Just what the situation required,” snapped Farthing, “commentary on American jurisprudence from a Limey photographer.”
“Besides which,” said Caitlin, ignoring him to the best of her ability, “I’m afraid you wouldn’t find much sympathy in the French courts. In fact, they have a special provision banning frivolous lawsuits, which states that if you’re unable to prove your case, you pay all costs for both sides.” This was news to Jill, but she played along. “Now, why don’t you lie down and get a head start on those twenty-four hours Mrs. Capshaw was talking about.” She didn’t wait for a reply. “Would you rather stay here, or go to your room?”
“Well, since your company is doing nothing to lessen the pain in my head, I guess I’ll go to my room.”
Piper waded into the breech. “I’ll give you a hand up the stairs.”
“I don’t need help, thanks,” Farthing snapped sharply, pulling his elbow from Piper’s grasp.
“I’m going to help you anyway,” said Piper, reclaiming the elbow so sharply Farthing winced, “as a favor to the castle ghost.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to a sentient being, or only to you?”
“It means I’m not going to let you kill yourself climbing those stairs. I should imagine the castle ghost has enough on her plate without the likes of you haunting the place.”
Farthing laughed in spite of himself and went quietly to his room.
“Thank you for coming down, Joanna,” said Jill, as the two shook hands. “I don’t know what we’d’ve done without you.”
“I’m impressed,” said Jill. “You were cool as a cucumber.”
“And had it been any more serious,” Mrs. Capshaw asserted good-naturedly, “I’d have been about as much use as one, I assure you.”
A momentary silence followed, during which everyone tried to think what to say next. Meanwhile, Mrs. Capshaw drifted toward the open door. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, as if savoring a rich, red wine.
“I apologize for not getting back sooner,” Amber volunteered at last. “She wasn’t in her room. I couldn’t think where she might have got to.”
“Oh, that’s my fault,” said Caitlin, genuinely. “She stayed with me last night.”
“With you?” said Jill reflexively. Caitlin explained.
“I was just coming down the hall, when I heard a noise in your room,” said Amber, with a nod at Caitlin. “Knowing you were down here,
and the maid hadn’t yet begun to clean the rooms, I tapped on the door and, well . . . as you know . . . ”
Caitlin apologized again and was seconded by Joanna Capshaw from the doorway.
Amber directed a meaningful gaze at her stepmother. “I’m sure Caitlin has more than enough to do without having to hold our hands. If you have difficulty sleeping tonight, I hope you’ll come see me.”
The self-assured nurse dissolved beneath the gentle rebuke. “Of course, Amber. I . . . again, I’m sorry.”
“It was no trouble, really,” Caitlin mumbled weakly.
“Well, he’s alive, and will probably be none the worse for wear in a few days,” said Jill.
“Really, Jill,” said Caitlin. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you ‘if you can’t say something nice, say nothing at all’?” The joke had been meant to dismiss the tension. It didn’t.
Chapter Twelve–Curare Cocktail
“We’re quite near Curemont aren’t we?” asked Mrs. Griffeth from the front passenger seat, a position she had commandeered on the first day and kept, owing to her assertion that she would be carsick in a back seat. Her claim had never been contested, yet every day, as the ersatz Ansel Adams’ shuffled to the van, she would make her way to the front of the line with cries of ‘Shotgun! I’ve got shotgun!’ After which she would turn to whomever was behind her at the moment and explain that she had to sit in the front because she’d probably get sick in the back. “Has something to do with where the wheels are, I think.”
“That’s where I left my film to be developed yesterday. I’d love to stop by and get it, if that’s not too much trouble.”
“We weren’t in this area yesterday, Mrs. Griffeth,” said Caitlin. “We went east, remember?”
“Oh dear, I know that,” Mrs. Griffeth replied. “Jill arranged for Genevieve to drop the film off. She lives hereabouts, I gather. Anyway, knowing we’d be in the neighborhood . . . Speaking of Genevieve, do you think my glasses will be there when we get back? I honestly can’t take a picture without them.”
Dead and Breakfast (Caitlyn Craft Mysteries Book 1) Page 10
